


Seduction and Sedition

by phenanthrene_blue



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Dirty Book, Dirty Thoughts, If it feels good do it, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Massage, New York Yankees, Porn, So Wrong It's Right, The devil might waterboard me for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-28 18:40:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16728771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phenanthrene_blue/pseuds/phenanthrene_blue
Summary: The whole thing started as a bad joke, albeit a well-intentioned one, but the road to Hell is paved with good intentions and bad jokes.Boredom and curiosity, of course, are the mortar that holds the paving-stones on the road to Hell together.





	Seduction and Sedition

The whole thing started as a bad joke, albeit a well-intentioned one, but the road to Hell is paved with good intentions and bad jokes.

Aaron had just tried to be nice, massaging Andrew’s shoulders after a particularly frustrating at-bat. It was all lighthearted and friendly, something Aaron had done before for his other teammates, and Andrew told him he was really pretty good at it. Nobody had ever told him that before. 

Andrew had then said that his mom had a book about massage, and that he’d ask her to send it to Aaron. _For a little bedtime reading_ , he had said, joking that his shoulders would be forever grateful.  

Aaron had rolled his eyes and told him to shut his pie-hole, thinking that Andrew McCutchen, a walking exercise in ball-busting, was just pulling his leg. 

He didn’t expect that the following Monday, he’d find an out-of-place shopping bag in his locker, and he definitely didn’t predict that a book would actually tumble out _right onto his goddamn foot_ when he went to open it.

An actual _book_ , with enough weight to hurt, all about massage. And of course, Andrew hadn’t told him that it was an _erotic_ massage book. 

Aaron had just laughed to himself and hidden the thing back under some miscellaneous junk in his locker, but one night after extra innings, when everyone else had gone home exhausted, he was _bored_ in the clubhouse and got curious - because, really, who _wouldn’t_ be curious about such a thing eventually?

Boredom and curiosity, of course, are the mortar that holds the paving-stones on the road to Hell together. 

Because that’s how Aaron got to looking at the illustrations and softer-focus pictures and reading about, well, what he could _really_ do with his hands, and he half-wanted to kill Cutch for ever getting him into this, joke or not, because it began to occupy more time in his mind than it really should have.

And that’s how Aaron started _thinking_. At first, he left his mind blank while reading, but then there was that particularly dirty bit in Chapter Six, and Aaron’s thoughts had wandered and _wandered,_ and he caught himself thinking about Giancarlo. It wasn’t the first time he had done so, and at the beginning, it was just something idle, _silly_ , even; but then it happened again the following night, and again in Chapter Seven. And Eight. And _Nine_ , sweet Jesus.

Then, Aaron spent a week telling himself that he _wouldn’t_ think like that anymore. He put the book somewhere in the back of his locker, slid his batting helmets and bobbleheads in front of it, and tried to focus solely on baseball, compacting and squashing literally everything else into in impossibly small space in his brain. 

 _Giancarlo was his_ teammate _, his closest friend in New York, and that was the one place you did not go; the one line you did not cross. He_ couldn’t _, he told himself._

And then the following afternoon, Giancarlo had walked into the clubhouse wearing nothing but flip-flops and a towel, and Aaron’s brain cannonballed right off the diving board and into the deep end. 

He dug the book back out that night and took it home with him, and this time, he got in bed and just let his thoughts go wherever they pleased. Aaron couldn’t quit thinking about what he was reading, couldn’t stop fantasizing about touching Giancarlo like _that_ , about putting his hands _all over him_ , about making his friend and teammate feel _amazing_ , and he had gotten red-hot in the face and embarrassingly aroused. He had to bookmark the page and take a shower. 

 _But he couldn’t go there. He_ had _to stop before he did something really stupid._

 _He had heard rumors of what happened when people_ tried _to_   _go there with their teammates. When someone got drunk and said something they shouldn’t, or someone tried to diffuse an argument inappropriately, or someone got too handsy. Even if it was something so minor as a_ misinterpretation _, some part of the ultimate taboo got broken._

_And then nobody mentioned it again while it grew and bloated, festering and distorting into a giant ticking bomb beneath the clubhouse, until the whole thing detonated._

_And that’s how your team ended up like the Mariners, slamming the clubhouse door on a whole cadre of reporters before retreating inside and decking each other for forty minutes. That’s how you ended up collapsing into fourth place, and how shit ended up on Twitter. And that’s why, eventually, someone might throw ninety-five at your head and half your own fans will cheer for it, even in 2018, because that’s the way things always have been, and always will be._

He had to stop, but he couldn’t help it. It was a like a riot in his mind.

Then Aaron had indeed _done something really stupid_ and tried to read on the plane on the trip to Oakland, concealing the cover of the book with the hoodie he had taken off and placed in his lap.

“What’re you reading over here, anyway?” Giancarlo had asked halfway through their flight. “Don’t think I’ve even seen you breathe for like, ninety minutes.”

Aaron had wrapped the book up in his hoodie quickly and said “Nothing”, which was the _worst_ thing he could’ve said to lead Giancarlo to believe that it was actually _nothing_ , and of course Giancarlo wouldn’t let it go and somehow grabbed the book from him as Aaron tried to fit it back into his carry-on bag.

Aaron was mortified and tried to avert his eyes, but _couldn’t_ , as Giancarlo turned a couple of pages, and then a few more, and raised a curious eyebrow at him, the look on his face an obvious mixture of confusion and intrigue. Aaron had waved his hands and said it was just Cutch making a joke, and it was all Cutch’s idea, and…

 _“_ Well, uh, _whatever.”_ Giancarlo interrupted. _“_ When we get back, how about you _…”_ his voice had lowered, “help me get this fucking _kink_ out of my neck, huh? Been there since Baltimore. _”_

_And then he had smiled, a sly, rogue smile, and patted Aaron just a bit too high on his thigh. And winked._

Aaron had been a goner.

The book, now returned to his locker, had gone missing a couple of days later. He figured Andrew had probably taken it - likely that his mom just wanted it back - but it was no real matter. _Aaron had committed most of what he read to memory anyway._

***

And that’s how Aaron ends up here, on a stormy September night preceding an off-day, pacing around his apartment like a tiger waiting to be fed.

 _7:52. 7:56. 7:59._ He’s obsessively checking his phone.

He’s got most of the lights off, except for two dimmer switches, set as low as they can be turned. One in the hallway, and one in his bedroom. _Mood and Ambience_ , the chapter had been called.

There’s a knock at 8:04, and Giancarlo is standing in the doorway, wearing a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, his hair wet from the rain.

“Hey, G.”

“Hey, AJ.”

“Why’s it so fuckin’ dark in here?”

“Been working on meditating. Less light helps me focus.” He says, closing the door behind them both. _It’s one of the dumbest lies he’s ever told. If awkwardness were an Olympic sport, Aaron would be setting a world record._

Giancarlo throws his bag somewhere in the hall, and they talk for a while before Aaron finally asks.

“How’s your neck?”

“Still pretty stiff.”

Aaron figures he’s probably red as an overripe tomato by now. “Still want me to…see what, uh…I can do?”

“Well, seeing as you’ve practically taken a class on it, _of course_.” Giancarlo smiles. His voice is deep, and there’s a little _something_ glittering in his dark eyes, and Aaron swears that he’s going to spontaneously combust.

Giancarlo’s been over a bunch of times, and knows his way around Aaron’s apartment. Without any direction or provocation whatsoever, he heads for the master bedroom and immediately settles down on Aaron’s bed, stretching out comfortably.

It’s dim and five degrees too warm, but _maybe it’s just him._ Aaron sits down next to Giancarlo; the mattress creaks.

“Show me where, G?”

Giancarlo faces away from Aaron and makes a few vague points with his finger. Aaron inhales, and wraps his entire hand around the back of Giancarlo’s neck. He digs in with his palm. He’s very slow, deliberate and particular, with little twists of his wrists over the tense parts. Giancarlo eases onto his back, and Aaron gets both his hands underneath his head, dragging his thumbs and his knuckles down his neck repeatedly, from behind his ears to his collarbone and back up again. He continues for at least ten minutes.

Giancarlo’s skin is hot, almost _too_ hot beneath his fingers, and Aaron is already _yearning_ to touch him more.

Aaron wants to press his face right into the side of Giancarlo’s neck, to feel his pulse burning beneath his mouth, quick and _vulnerable_ , right in the middle of all of Giancarlo’s size and strength and formidability.

“Cutch was right.” Giancarlo interrupts Aaron’s thoughts. Just _thoughts._ “You _are_ good at this, holy _shit._ ”

“Feeling any better?”

“Yeah. Think I got a hand cramp now though.” Giancarlo smirks up at him. “Took too many practice swings.”

“You’re so full of it, you know that?”

Aaron doesn’t care about the excuses. He buries the tip of his thumb right into the thickest part of Giancarlo’s palm and squeezes. He rubs up and down every one of Giancarlo’s strong fingers, hard and with both hands, until Aaron feels nothing but bone and Giancarlo actually _moans_.

It sounds _almost_ sexual, and Aaron’s head spins hearing it.

“Other hand.” Aaron says. He repeats his ministrations and goes further, circling his hands around Giancarlo’s wrist, stroking up his arm until the tips of both thumbs slide together into the hollow of his elbow. Aaron feels over the bulge of Giancarlo’s bicep, lets his fingers stick in every single point of definition. The source of Giancarlo’s _power_. Aaron can barely cope with it.

“Can you get my shoulders too?”

“If you take your shirt off, I’ll get _wherever you want._ ”

Giancarlo complies, and Aaron just _stares_ at him, at his hard muscles and broad shoulders and skin the color of just-barely-too-milky coffee, and Aaron nearly drowns in the surge, the blunt force of wanting crashing over him.

“This, uh…might make things easier.” Aaron cracks the drawer of his bedside table open and feels around inside.

_Of course he came prepared._

Aaron tips the bottle, dribbles the oil all over his hands, and goes back to work.

This time, Aaron is more intense, with broad strokes of his palms across Giancarlo’s shoulders and down his chest, until Giancarlo is smooth and slick everywhere. He looks _good_ like that, and Giancarlo is clearly enjoying it, his eyes closed, head tipped back a little. Aaron sees that his mouth is half-open, dusky pink in the low light, and Aaron wants to kiss him, to taste him, to suck on his full, sweet lower lip until he blacks out from lack of breath.

But he cannot go there. He _will not_ go there.

But he’s _going there_ , all of him flying five-hundred miles per hour in the wrong direction.

Giancarlo rolls onto his stomach. More oil is on his hands, and Aaron kneads down his back, grinding his fists earnestly into everything he can reach, rubbing him deep until dull pain starts to well up up in his fingertips.

_Aaron wants to use his fingernails. To mark him up. To claim him._

When Aaron’s wrists graze over the waistband of Giancarlo’s shorts, he stops. Giancarlo is breathing faster, and Aaron is, for a moment, frozen into inaction.

“No, keep going.” Giancarlo protests.“More.” He whispers, “ _Like in your dirty book, Aaron_.”

_Aaron can’t believe what he’s just heard._

It’s almost, _maybe_ a gesture of _seduction_ , but no matter what Aaron wants, no matter what Giancarlo wants, he really, _really_ shouldn’t. This is the point where Aaron needs be an adult, to exercise some self-control, to say _I’m sorry, but I should stop_.

But just for a short while, Aaron wonders why. _Why_ can’t _he go there?_

 _Aaron does what he’s told. He’s always on time, always amicable. He’s open and smiles and nods to the vicious mob that is the New York media, even when they’ve been badly beaten, when he’s so tired, and when everything’s wrong inside. He lets them take pictures and ask their questions. He takes it, plays along, lets everyone have their hard-hitting hero, their gentle giant, their pound of flesh. That’s who he is. That’s_ what _he is._

 _But why should he pretend, and keep pretending, keep letting_ the way it should be _dictate_ everything? _Why should he keep being quiet, chasing random college girls and letting the gossip rags speculate, when he could have_ Giancarlo Stanton _, spread out and positively_ melting _like this in front of him?_

So no, it’s not just about the seduction. Maybe it’s more about the _sedition_.

“I’m going to take these off.” Aaron says, and then eases Giancarlo’s shorts and underwear down and off. “And if anything makes you uncomfortable, tell me, okay?”

Giancarlo nods into the pillow.

Aaron is fortunate that Giancarlo is face-down in his bed because there’s more _staring_. Giancarlo’s thighs are big, solid and cut beautifully as out of stone, and his ass is round and firm and amazing. Aaron isn’t going to rush things. He starts all the way down, curving his fingers around Giancarlo’s feet, working over his heels and his ankles for a while.

“ _Keep going._ ”

His words urge Aaron on, and he sweeps the sides of his hands slowly up Giancarlo’s calves, pausing in that warm, tender area behind his knees. Then Aaron needs more oil and more pressure, and he leans his weight onto one elbow, leans right into Giancarlo’s thighs with it, moving like _that_ until Giancarlo gives a little whine of approval.

Aaron pushes Giancarlo’s thighs apart and switches back to his hands, moving dangerously upward, and the places he’s now touching are paler and more sensitive, his hands gliding up the swell of Giancarlo’s ass.

“This okay?”

“Yes, you’re _so_ _good at this, Aaron, my God_.”

Hearing his name said like _that_ is going to break him. So Aaron absolutely _worships_ Giancarlo with his hands, exploring, lingering over the well-oiled flesh of his _perfect_ ass, letting one finger dip just slightly, teasingly between his cheeks.

Aaron stops, and Giancarlo makes a weak, plaintive sound, pushing himself down into the blanket a little. Aaron shifts his hands to Giancarlo’s hips, helping him move toward the edge of the bed until he slides off and his both knees touch down on the carpet.

Giancarlo’s cock is heavy between his legs, massive and flawless like the rest of him, and completely hard.

Aaron is going to lose his mind.

“H-have you ever had anything inside you?” He’s barely cohesive enough to form the thought, let alone speak it.

“No. Does it feel good?”

 _God yes. He remembers. Chapter Nine. Experimenting on himself in the fucking_ shower _._

“Yes. May I?”

“Yeah.” Giancarlo says quickly. “ _Please_.”

He’s back in the drawer until he finds the _smaller_ bottle. Aaron pops the cap and rubs it liberally on his fingers. He blows on them so it won’t be _cold_ , and lets a few drops roll, soft and silky, down into Giancarlo’s crack as he spreads him apart, fingertip pressing bluntly against his tight entrance.

“Just breathe, G.” Aaron tells him.

Aaron slides his finger in slowly, just up to the first knuckle. And then he goes a little further, bending his finger until Giancarlo’s breathing gives way to a gasp of “ _God_ , yes.”

He pulls out slowly, feels Giancarlo relaxing, his resistance loosening, and pushes in gently again, and this time the noise Giancarlo makes is primal and shameless, almost criminally hot. Aaron deftly works his finger in and out, twisting a little, shoving right into the _epicenter_ of all Giancarlo’s pleasure until he’s struggling to stay still, but at the same time trying to push back, to ride Aaron’s fingers.

He looks up and sees that Giancarlo has stuffed his own wrist into his mouth. He’s biting down, hard.

Aaron can’t take it. He wants use his tongue instead, and _lick_ him hot and filthy until his jaw locks up, until Giancarlo begs him for it. He wants to push his dick inside that bare heat until he bottoms out, wants to fill him completely; to split him apart, to fuck him through the absolute limits of his imagination and right past the end-points of _going there_.

A bead of sweat tracks from Aaron’s forehead to his nose, and Aaron is painfully hard, aching inside for release, almost ready to come in his pants like he’s fucking _fourteen._

So he stops, waits for all of Giancarlo’s mewling and moaning to deaden and his breathing to slow, and then Aaron fingers him again, giving his cock a few strong tugs. It’s not long until he coerces Giancarlo right to the edge, where his cock is leaking and his voice is tortured. Then, as before, his motions cease quickly.

Then Aaron adds a second finger, and pushes in as far as he can, over and _over_ until Giancarlo’s legs are trembling uncontrollably and he’s _destroyed_ , reduced to nothing but _sinew_ and _sin_ and so much _pleading_.

And again he _stops._

“Aaron, you little _shit._ ” Giancarlo pants at him, feeling blindly for Aaron’s hands with his own, feeling for his cock, desperate for any friction at all.

Aaron finally lets Giancarlo lie down. He’s flushed, wet everywhere from oil and sweat, and it’s the finest goddamn thing Aaron’s ever laid his eyes on.

Aaron presses his hands together and forces Giancarlo’s cock between his palms. He intertwines his fingers tightly and Giancarlo groans, thrusting up into Aaron’s hands, a slick vice-grip of oil and lube.

Aaron moves his hands up and down like that. He starts slow, so _maddeningly_ slow that Aaron thinks that Giancarlo is going to absolutely scream, but then he moves faster and soon Giancarlo is matching his pace with small, irregular flicks of his hips.

It doesn’t take long at all.

“ _H-holy_ shit, Aaron, I’m-.”

“C’mon, G, baby.” Aaron croons. “ _Come on._ _Come on.”_

He clamps his hands as tight as they can go.

“Come _for me_ , _Giancarlo._ ”

Giancarlo obeys, coming hot and slippery all over Aaron’s hands, silently and with his eyes closed, biting his lip so hard that Aaron thinks he may chew clean through.

Aaron strokes him through it, drawing out every last growl and hard breath that he can, until his hands finally still.

When Giancarlo does open his eyes, he just _stares_ Aaron down, his pupils huge from arousal and exertion.

“ _Jesus fucking Christ_.” He finally says. “Bet Cutch doesn’t know about _that, huh?_ ”

***

Giancarlo goes to the bathroom to take a shower.

Aaron needs a drink, or maybe twelve. Shit, he’s _so_ wired that he can’t make his hands work in any coordinated manner, fumbling numbly around in the cupboard for a glass. Bourbon, with a single ice cube. He pours half of it on the counter, damn it all.

He sits on the sofa and takes a couple of sips. _To pull the plug, turn the lights off; to deaden the spark everywhere._

The lights are still dimmed, and the low din of the rain spattering on the window outside is peaceful. Ordinarily, it would be a tonic for shredded nerves, but Aaron’s hand is too shaky, the ice cube going _clink clink clink_ quickly against the side of the glass as he holds it.

Aaron isn’t really sure what he’s supposed to do, other than wait for the night to be over _somehow_.

And then jerk off until he’s raw. And then lie awake all night, because how on Earth is he supposed to sleep _after…_

 _What’s he supposed to do tomorrow? And the day after? When all the commotion and the high of rule-breaking, or whatever it all was, ends? What’s he going to do the next time he’s supposed to play a_ game?

_It’s all smooth sailing until you’re dashed on the bitter shoals of reality._

_He went there. Dear_ God _, he went_ there _._

Giancarlo’s in the hallway now, and Aaron hears him doing something in his bag, hears the pull of a zipper; Aaron mumbles to himself and rubs his eyes wearily.

Footsteps, and then he’s startled by the heavy slam of something into his coffee table.

The _book_. How this all _started._

Giancarlo’s got the fucking _book_ , which he taps on the table rather intently.

“Where did you…?” Aaron begins, but Giancarlo cuts him off. 

“What, you thought I _couldn’t read_ , or something?”

Another wink. Another smile.

“Funny.” Aaron drains the rest of his drink.

“Yeah, well, I _can_ -” Giancarlo’s expression is rapidly morphing into something almost _evil_ , and he grabs Aaron right by the collar of his shirt. “-and now it’s _my_ _turn._ ”

Aaron, now just wholly dumbstruck by it all, follows Giancarlo back to the bedroom.

 _He’s_ so fucked _and he can’t wait._

_Yeah, he went there._

_And for Giancarlo, he’d go there again in a_ minute.

**Author's Note:**

> "I do have a cause, though. It is obscenity. I'm for it!" ~Tom Lehrer
> 
> Just total crack and poly-shippery for no other reason than "because I can." Fictional, obviously.


End file.
